come and fill this aching night
by windofbanners
Summary: There is no more "us" she thinks. No more "we." Just "he" and "I" and god, how she hates how abandoned the "I" looks, all alone. [Jade&Beck] [Jade-centric]


**A/N**: So, if anybody here is as big of a Bade fan as I am, then I'm sure you'll all agree that DAN SCHNEIDER NEEDS TO BRING THEM BACK TOGETHER ALREADY. Apparently there's a season 3 episode titled "Tori Saves Beck and Jade" but I won't believe it until I can see it, and there's no release date yet. _Grrrr_…

I'm a huge Seddie shipper and all, but I especially _loved_ Beck and Jade because they _worked_, because they were BeckandJade and JadeandBeck, and because they belonged _together_. And they showed that you don't _have_ to be a pretty, sparkly, frickin _perfect_ girl to still snag a fairy tale prince and get your happy ending, that you can still be loved even if you're dark and twisty and a _thousand_ miles from flawless. Because I'm sixteen now, and even though I'm not a Jade, I'm nowhere near a Tori, and BeckandJade gave me hope.

SO DAN SCHNEIDER SHOULD GET OFF HIS BUM AND GET THEM BACK TOGETHER. NOW.

Whew. That feels so much better now that that's out of my system.

Anywho, this was written in a span of 26 minutes at 2:30 in the morning, so please point out any errors, problems with fluency, etc!

P.S. See how easy the new review system is? Therefore, you are all obligated to review. Thank you. That is all. ^_^

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"_Writing is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these."  
~ Emily Dickinson _

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Jade is an actress and a singer and a dancer.

(_and shhh, don't tell, but she's also a – whisper the word – writer_)

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When she and Be – she used to write at night when he was asleep. When words began to tremble to life within her, she would jerk out of her light slumber, flip on a dim light, and grab for the pad of paper he kept on his nightstand (he kept it there for her).

And then, with the night deep and dark and lovely outside the window, words would spill out of her and curl themselves onto the creamy white paper, blossoming to life under the touch of the fountain pen. It was the closest thing to magic in her world, and even though Jade hated watching children blow bubbles and looking at kittens yawn, she never tired of seeing her hand move and untold stories appear.

She crafted masterpieces. She wrote tragedies that rivaled Shakespeare's, songs that would win Grammy's (with actual meaning, not like Tori's glitzy _pop_ lyrics) and poems that bled love and sorrow and light.

The nighttime was her time. She craved the silence that came with the second hour of the day, the pure, undiluted lack of sound and the knowledge that she was the only one awake on the street, in the town, perhaps in the world.

But when the quiet grew too deep for comfort and her mind too dull to think, a terror would rear within her, a rattling fear that she _was_, perhaps, the only breathing being left in the universe, a single passenger on a piece of rock hurtling through the stars. That was when she would look at him lying next to her. She would drink in his slumbering face and the angles of his cheeks, impossibly softer in sleep, and they would soothe her, reminding her that she was not alone. She would run a pale hand through his dark hand before turning back to the paper, fresh words tumbling out of her once more.

He was always the one to carry her through the night

(_and he didn't even know it_)  
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But

Now, with the meaningless and nothingness and emptiness and

Now, with the empty words and shallow words and hollow words and

Now, with the broken and the dead and the gone

Now, he'll never know it

(_at least, he'll never hear her say it_)  
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She couldn't write for a week after the she and Be- she couldn't write for a week after the breakup, that's how wrong things were. Her words would throttle her and choke her and do everything and anything but _save_ her.

She wasn't really surprised. The things she needs to survive – not to live, just to _survive_ – always end up leaving her.

Still, for weeks, she forced herself to stay awake until morning began to dilute the black night, waiting for something worth writing down.

(_surprise, surprise, nothing ever came_)  
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Words are just – just never enough now.

When she writes of things like pain and hurt, she looks at the words and tears them up before laughing, because there's no way that four letter words can sum up the feeling of a black hole sitting in her chest and reducing her to dust.

Words just look - just look wrong now.

_(and of course, when something doesn't look right to Jade, she goes out of her way to hate it)_

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She slaps Sinjin into a locker when he calls her "beautiful," and some part of her knows it isn't fair to him, but the word feels like acid against her skin when it's not coming from _his_ mouth, when it's not _his_ lips curving around the syllables. Words like _lovely_ and _angel_ and _baby_ are also shown no mercy.

The same goes with her name. God, she hates the way Tori screeches it like a fucking _banshee_ and the way Robbie say it too quickly, because a name like hers needs to be said softly, with the weight of a history to put iron and winter behind the word, giving her definition and an anchor when she feels like she could float away. The only person who could ever say her name right was Be –

And god_dammit_, her irrationality stretches even to pronouns, because she can't stand it when André gestures to a group and uses his words and hands to tie them _together_, bond them as _one_.

As the cynical watcher in the corner, she wants to snatch the words out of his mouth, douse them with gasoline, and give them a good burning. There is no more "us" she thinks. No more "we." Just "he" and "I" and god, how she hates how abandoned the "I" looks, all alone.

It's so pathetic she wishes it were a person so she could slap it in the face.

(_but sometimes, it looks so lonely she wants to weep_)  
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She writes alone at night now, trying to find words untouched by him and her. The darkness outside her window is rattling and seeps into her bones, and she writes to try and shut out the aching night with something, anything, to prove that she is not alone.

But every morning, Jade wakes up on a bed cluttered with broken pens and fragmented thoughts on paper that are never enough to fill whatever used to reside inside her chest.

(_it's hard to write when she can't use the ten letters of the alphabet that spell out his name_)

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End file.
